Page 1 of Breakpoint
Chapter 1
“Game, set, match. Miss Harper. 5-7, 6-7, 6-4.”
Jaz heard the score but still couldn’t believe she had lost. She had won six matches over two weeks, and she had failed at the seventh match. She walked to the net across the bright blue court to shake Isla’s hand. She forced herself to hold her head high, to acknowledge the crowd, to accept the defeat with grace.
She was still stuck on seventeen Grand Slams. That same number had been plaguing her for the last two years. Grand Slams events were the four most prestigious annual tournaments in professional tennis. At thirty-five, she knew she was close to the end of her career, and time was dwindling to win more Grand Slam tournaments.
This Australian Open had been her chance to quiet the critics who said she didn’t have another title in her at this age. For a professional tennis player like Jaz, Grand Slams represent the ultimate test of skill, resilience, and determination. These were the pinnacles of achievement. Plus, they offered the most ranking points and prize money. It took talent, consistency, and a bit ofluck to win seven matches in a row over two weeks because anything could happen during those fourteen days.
The Australian air and humidity hung heavy with the weight of defeat as she collapsed onto her chair, the once-bright stadium lights now casting long, unforgiving shadows across her face. It may have been January and nine at night, but the temperature was still blazing hot in Melbourne. The heat had been suffocating Jaz all night, while the younger Isla looked fresh throughout the three-set match.
She could see the ground crew set up the stage area for the trophy ceremony. Jaz had been on the winning side of this seventeen times. But as the loser, the trophy ceremony was a strange purgatory. To put it bluntly, it fucking sucked.
Every fiber of her being had a raw and visceral urge to retreat to the locker room. There she could dissect each fault or missed opportunity in private, followed by smashing a racket with unbridled rage. Yet, she was bound by tradition and sportsmanship to remain present in this suffocating moment, to offer a smile and a round of applause, though beneath the surface, there was fury.
The announcement boomed through the stadium, bringing Jaz out of her thoughts. “Please congratulate our runner-up, seventeen-time Grand Slam champion Jazmine Mason.”
Jaz left her chair, legs weary after playing for over two and a half hours, and made her way to the center of the court onto the stage. Even in a loss, it was still powerful to have fifteen thousand people clapping for you. Jaz forced a smile and waved to the crowd. The glare of the lights were still intense, but now they felt less like a spotlight and more like an unwelcome heat on her face.
She went to the mic stand and stood in front of thousands of people, and millions at home. The crowd’s roar had softened into a dull hum, a soundtrack to the scene she desperately wished she could fast-forward. Isla stood a few feet away, beaming, basking in the glow of victory. Jaz had won this championship before, her name etched on that same trophy Isla was holding, but the reality that she wasn’t walking away with it tonight was a defeat she still hadn’t completely processed.
She leaned in to graciously speak, though every part of her wanted to run away. “First, Isla, great match. You were incredible today. You’re a great champion.” Turning towards the crowd, Jaz raised her runner-up trophy. “I also want to thank my amazing team.” Her voice gained strength. “My coach, my physio, my family... you’ve all been there for me every step of the way. Without your support, I wouldn’t be here today. Thank you.”
She waved to the crowd and stepped away from the microphone to let Isla have her moment. She tuned out whatever Isla was saying, replaying the match in her head. The forehand that just went long, the volley that she played too late. Her body, once a finely tuned instrument of power and precision, now felt heavy and unresponsive, each muscle a dull ache. The pain that she had fought through in her back was now starting to return.
She knew she could retire now, and no one would bat an eye. The media had been waiting for her to put down her racket. When she did, she knew she would be listed up there with the greats: Williams, Graff, Nadal, Federer, Kappas. She already had at least three titles of each of the four Grand Slams and even the calendar year Slam, all four tournaments in the same year. Her place intennis history was solid, something she could not have imagined when she picked up a racket at ten years old.
Being a professional tennis player was not even in her thought process, or something she saw people doing, as a ten-year-old black girl growing up in North Carolina. It was her older brother, Brandon, who fell in love with tennis first at their local youth center. Mainly because he was too skinny to play football. While Jaz, the ever-present little sister, two years younger, just tagged along. Needing someone to play with, Brandon coaxed her onto the court. Initially, she just fetched his stray shots, but she soon grew tired of being pelted with tennis balls, and she started to hit back. That was how their daily after-school ritual began–their own version of tennis, which was essentially smacking the ball around. They practically owned the courts, since all the other kids were busy with basketball and football.
Their parents knew nothing about tennis. They were simply happy their kids were occupied at the youth center, safe from the lure of gangs and trouble. A working-class couple, they were unfamiliar with the nuances of the sport and with only a vague awareness of the Williams sisters. Besides, no one rich or famous came from the small town they lived in. Especially not professional tennis players.
One day, a counselor at the youth center took an interest in the Mason siblings, offering guidance and eventually full-fledged training. Brandon, a natural athlete, absorbed every lesson like a sponge. Tennis consumed him; he devoured every piece of information he could find about the game. Jaz, though less enthusiastic, couldn’t deny her own progress. She was so naturally gifted thatshe made every swing appear effortless. By thirteen, she was regularly beating adults in local courts, often hustling them for cash.
It was Brandon who saw her potential, a future she couldn’t yet grasp. When she turned sixteen, he entered her in a few challenger tournaments, which she dominated. Seeing her effortless victories, Brandon declared she was turning pro. Looking back now, it was crazy and audacious to go pro, but Brandon was adamant. Jaz had no clue what that meant or how they even afforded to do it. He convinced their parents, became her coach, and somehow made everything happen.
Jaz exploded onto the professional scene, a phenomenon with raw talent, power, and pure aggression. Winning matches and collecting trophies with astonishing speed. Winning Indian Wells at seventeen, followed by the US Open at eighteen, catapulted her to fame. But more importantly, tennis got her family out of poverty.
She’d been playing tennis for over twenty-five years and was a pro for close to twenty. The younger players were chasing her, getting faster and stronger, and she could admit it was harder for her to keep up. This was the longest Grand Slam drought of her professional career. And it was getting harder every day to train to the same level she had been accustomed to. Her back hurt more, her knees would get swollen after every match, and she had constant nagging injuries. She wondered if it was still worth it, to only lose, when she often limped just getting out of bed in the morning.
Because now she stood here in the middle of this court in front of thousands of people holding a runner-up, essentially aloser’s,trophy. Disappointment washed over her again. It was a bitter taste that lingered on her tongue. This was not the script she hadenvisioned, the grand finale she had relentlessly trained and pushed her body for. The dream of lifting the coveted trophy, a symbol of her hard work and sacrifice, had slipped through their grasp. Again.
The weight of expectation, the pressure to perform at her peak, had taken its toll. The physical exhaustion, the relentless grind of matches and training sessions, had pushed her body to its limits. But she wasn’t going to be done until she got to twenty Grand Slams. She and Brandon had set her sights on twenty for so long, and she was so close. There was no way she was giving up.
She was finally brought out of her reverie when the crowd let out a thunderous applause for Isla. The main part of the trophy ceremony was over, and she could leave.
“Thank fuck,” she whispered and retreated to the locker room. It was completely empty, the smell of sweat over the last few weeks completely gone, given that she and Isla were the only female players left in the tournament.
She could hear the faint cheers of the crowd outside, still celebrating Isla’s victory. She was an Australian who had done it at her home tournament. Jaz knew that feeling; the first time she won the US Open, she felt she had reached the pinnacle of her career.
The echoes of her own disappointment were just as loud. She sat alone on the wooden bench, hunched over, her head in her calloused hands. Her body ached. Every muscle screamed in protest after the grueling three-set match. She had fought for every point, every game, but it hadn’t been enough. The physical exhaustion was a heavy weight on her shoulders, making it hard to even lift her head. Her lower back was on fire with stinging pain.
Moments like these that the little inkling inside her to retire roared louder. The countless hours of practice, the sacrifices made, the unwavering focus and determination she had maintained for weeks, all seemed to have culminated in this one heartbreaking moment. The what-ifs played on repeat in her mind. What if that forehand had landed in? What if she hadn’t double-faulted at that crucial moment?
The missed opportunities pressed down on her, each one a sharp sting of regret. She had been so close, yet so far. The dream of holding trophy number eighteen. She was still solidly in the top ten, and this appearance in the final would keep her there. Logically, she had little else to prove. She had won seventeen Grand Slam titles and helped change the face of tennis for black girls like her.
The locker room door opened, and Mike, her coach for the last nine years, walked in. He said nothing, just sat beside her and put a comforting hand on her back. His presence was a silent acknowledgment of her pain, a shared understanding of the journey they had been on together.
When people were writing Jaz off at twenty-six, Brandon slid over to be only her manager, and Mike stepped in as coach. That move revolutionized her game. He shifted the focus to tactics and mental fortitude, areas she’d previously neglected. Until then, Jaz had been winning on raw talent alone, with little strategic thinking. Mike, tall with red hair, green eyes, and freckles all over, who grew up immersed in the tennis world, reaching the top hundred in his own playing career.
